


Maman au Concerto

by MazzieMay



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MazzieMay/pseuds/MazzieMay
Summary: Here, right here: this is why he's friends with Chloe. If only she were like this around anyone else. Adrien knows they'd see her the way he does.A three piece collection demonstrating the hallmark of Adrien's out of place friendship with Chloe: it all comes down to mommy issues.





	1. premier mouvement

**Maman au Concerto**  
_premier mouvement_  
abandonment

 

Midnight Christmas dinner had left Adrien drained.

So many people showing up to show their support, to show they care, and how his father had let them was wonderfully overwhelming. He had been so sure he’d be too wired to sleep that night, buzzing and humming with warm feelings.

Instead, he wakes up bloodshot and bleary-eyed. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing he’s still in his clothes from last night. He groans into his mattress; he hates sleeping in jeans.

Groggy with his hair flat against his head, Adrien lifts himself into a cat stretch before half rolling out of bed. There’s some grappling with his belt, but he’s pants-free quickly enough. He rubs his shins before heading for the shower.

The dial cranked to full blast, he stands beneath the rain-style shower head, pelted by the mighty and torrential water for a while, zoning out. The water pressure rinses his hair, his hands hanging lamely at his sides. Adrien is frumpily dragging a towel around his head before he’s actually starting to wake up.

Surprisingly, no one has come to summon him, and Adrien thinks his father is showing a bit of mercy for the late night festivities he allowed.

Satisfied to spend the better part of the day recovering from all the Christmas cheer, all he pulls over his barely dried body is a white t-shirt from his father’s casual collection that hides the hem of his undone pajama pants. Why tie them up? Who’s he impressing today?

That question is answered by a knock on his door, that is quickly followed by a high, sing-song, “Adrikins~” before he can reply. He’s immediately fumbling with the draw strings on his sweats, fumbling to keep the wet towel on his head, fumbling through, “Jus - In a minute! Yeah!”

Plagg snorts from the comforter, his nest of a blanket and scarves a good a place to hide as any.

After wadding up the towel and hurling it into his dark bathroom, Adrien lets out a sigh to center and steel himself, before opening the door -

\- And nearly being blown over by Hurricane Chloé.

High fashion is ever mysterious, as Chloé whirls around in a winter coat that has both form-fitting broquet and a fur collar so full, her head might as well be floating on a cloud.

Still, Adrien notes, closing the door behind her as he regains his balance, it’s pretty. Doesn’t look like anything from his father’s collections (Gabriel strays from yellow since his wife left), but the gold butterfly motif of the jacket’s body, excessively trimmed with (what what Adriend hopes is faux) fur could certainly pass for Argeste Apparel.

Slender hands are in suede, navy gloves. And held in those gloved hands, is a box of pastries.

_Boulangerie Patisserie_.

“I know I’m gorgeous,” Chloé purrs with a raised brow. “But how rude is it to stare?”

He clicks his tongue at her with a shake of his head, then makes a sweeping gesture towards the couch in the center of his room. “Merry Christmas, Chloé,” he says after realizing he didn’t really greet her.

“Right?”

Oh, Chloé. Following her around to take a seat, but keeping a cushion between them, he asks, “What are you doing here?” Because while she may enjoy being coy and wandering around subjects herself, it’s always better to just be blunt when talking to her.

“Oh, you know, just in the neighborhood specifically to stop by.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. Removing her gloves, “And I just happened to pick up this box of the tiny eclairs you love so much.”

Dryly, “You mean, you love so much.”

Painstakingly sculpted nails begin picking at the cardboard latch. “Whoops,” she says airily. “Guess it’s a good thing my hand slipped -” and the lid is popped, revealing Adrien’s actual favourite treat: apple cinnamon fritters with caramel drizzle. He moans his appreciation.

Most days, even holidays, Adrien’s dietary guidelines would keep such things forbidden. But Chloé will let no rules dictate her, especially the ones that apply to other people. It seems she had the mini eclairs piled thick over the fritters to sneak them past his bodyguard.

His ‘thank you’ is loudly whispered, and she hums her welcome.

Careful that the chocolate never leaves the pad of her fingertips for easy cleaning with her tongue (no asking for napkins), Chloe gives his outfit an obvious and critical once over.

“Why the jobless look? You live at home, but not in basement.”

He flushes. “I wasn’t expecting company. Chloé.” She looks incredibly innocent. Yeah. Her and Kermit the Frog.

“Okay. But also, it’s like, almost noon.”

“Which,” he insists, rubbing his fingers together to free them of excess cinnamon, “brings us back to: why are you here?”

Ever a lady but still indulgent, Chloé tends to inhale the little pastries. Almost like she orders them small for no other purpose than to ensure no chewing is necessary. Now, though, she takes her time swallowing what is clearly a tiny mouthful.

She’s looking out the massive panes of glass before them, her gaze unfocused, her attention on something inside her head. Her makeup is light today, he notices; foundation and mascara, a coloured lip balm. Almost naked, by her standards.

“Can I take my coat off?” she asks suddenly.

“Er, yeah?”

The bold outerwear reveals a designer zipup, something from his father’s line; a gradient of aquamarine, growing darker towards the bottom. The hood and shoulders have a water-type pattern, like a picture taken from beneath the surface of the ocean. Adrien owns one himself.

They had gotten them together, because Chloé wanted them to have something matching, and it’s one of the only things his father ever designed as unisex.

Adrien isn’t sure what point, if any, she’s trying to make by wearing it right now. Maybe it’s nothing, but it feels like a fairly personal gesture. Especially since -

“Is this cool yet?”

\- since they got them the day his mother left.

It creates an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Not so much seeing the clothing, but feeling embarrassed he so childishly buried everything from that day. Chloé is unaware of it, but there’s a hard silence from the other side of the room, where Plagg has surely found the conversation interesting.

“...Yeah. It’s cool,” he says, finally. “It was always cool.”

“Good,” she says. “Because isn’t it just perfect for our eyes?” Speaking of eyes, Adrien rolls his. “Just the right amount of blue for mine, and the right amount of green for yours.”

“Definitely the real tragedy.” His sarcasm is light. “You came over for that?”

“No.” And she’s still Chloé, but there’s something a little more sombre to her dismissive tone. “Real talk: I came to check on you.”

Oh.

“The first Christmas - well, like, first any major holiday without my mom was pretty hard.” Adrien swallows. “Even though I was so mad at her I couldn’t see straight.” Her contempt is clear, but her tone softens a bit as she admits, “I still would rather she’d been there.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at his smuggled fritter.

“I just remember how much it sucked. So.” He can see her shrug slightly from the corner of his eye. “How was the first Big One without _maman_?”

Here, right here: this is why he’s friends with Chloé. If only she were like this around anyone else. Adrien knows they’d see her the way he does.

“It sounds like your dad is still saying she ‘disappeared.’”

She gets it. It happened much earlier in her life, but Mrs Bourgeois also walked out of her husband and child’s lives.

“...Yeah.” It comes out a little rough, and he clears his throat. “Yeah,” he repeats. “We don’t know where she is, but it’s not like she vanished.”

She plucks up another eclair. “Tell me about it. Daddy was the same way. Like, Daddy, please. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. That woman -” because she is no longer ‘Mumsie’ “- caught the first train out. Get over it. I did.”

_No_ , Adrien thinks, _no you did not._

The conversation drifts towards school and gossip. It’s mostly Chloé talking, because she never needed anyone else to have a conversation.

Eventually, his television is on, and the soft click of buttons and analog sticks fill the silence when she stops to take a breath. Blood and gore fill the screen as Adrien chops zombies down to size. Both of them watch the saturated violence explode across the tv, and neither have trouble dividing their attention between the visceral graphics and whatever Chloé has decided to prattle on about.

Playing games with his friends, like Marinette and Nino, is great, and he’s certainly perfected the art of solo-gaming. But there’s a special place in Adrien’s heart for times like these with Chloé.

She never asks for the controller or one for herself, nor does she backseat game; she just talks about whatever she wants, but still pays attention. Enough to quiet down during cutscenes, or squint at the screen when he’s working on a puzzle.

It’s kind of a weird setup, but it works for them, and Adrien wishes she would try for this kind of middle ground with more people. She can still be her while also being accommodating, when she wants to. It does make him feel special, but he wouldn’t mind sharing if it meant her compassion wasn’t this pseudo-secret.

There’s a small lull in conversation, as he let her help him with a jumping puzzle. Adrien works up the nerve to ask something she’s never mentioned but he’s always wondered about.

“Does she ever… you know, like…” God, this is so uncomfortable.

“Write or call or whatever? Not even.” Chloé downs another treat. “I don’t remember where I heard it, but I think she’s in Greece these days? But like, who knows? More like, who _cares_.”

Chloé is aggressive in all things. Her grief is no different. Adrien wonders how she can be so dismissive, but he has to remember that not only has Chloé been living without her disappeared mom for a lot longer than him, her mother had been extremely vocal in her unhappiness.

In fact, one of Mrs Bourgeois’ fits is how he and Chloé met. A little Chloé had come to talk to a little Adrien at a Christmas party, because she didn’t want to listen to one of her mom’s ‘tantrums’.

Adrien’s mother kept her misery close to her chest. He knew she’d been unhappy, but he hadn’t realized to what extent. Then poof, away she went to who knows where.

Certainly not her son.

She rejected and abandoned all things Gabriel Agreste. Adrien wonders just at what point he stopped being their son, and just his.

“Oh, Adrikins,” she sighs dramatically, when he asks. “Some people are just done. Like, with everything or whatever. And if your mother was anything like mine?” Her voice goes flat. “The kid didn’t factor in. At all.”

Was his mother anything like that? In the end, he supposes, she didn’t take him with her. Left Adrien to fend for himself.

Chloé’s father took the approach of buying Chloé’s affection. Chloé, for her love of all things that are things, does truly care about her father. Even if he took everything away, she would never do to him what her mother did to them. The mayor’s made it easy to walk in and out of his life, but Chloe will always choose to stay in.

Adrien’s father is a hard opposite. Though he can’t seem to understand that trying to keep Adrien in is the very thing that’s driving him out. Gabriel seems like he’s trying to see his son for who he is, but it’s hard to see anything beyond his grief.

The fact that he still refers to his wife’s leaving as her ‘disappearing’ is clear enough of his refusal to accept the truth of things.

“Daddy worked it out on his own,” she says, lazily waving around an eclair. “It tooks years, don’t get me wrong. I just wouldn’t listen. He wanted to feel sorry for himself, which I get, I guess.” Chloé pops the bonbon in her mouth, talking around it. “But like, poor you? You’re not the only one who got tossed aside here, Daddy. And if you’re so busy feeling sorry for yourself, who’s gonna feel sorry for me? Because, I am not gonna feel sorry for me. You don’t want me, lady? Your loss.”

Maybe, in a few years, Adrien can feel like that. It sounds dismissive and callous, but he knows Chloé is just protecting herself. That her mother leaving isn’t a positive, but it doesn’t have to be this great negative. It doesn’t have to be a poisonous rain cloud that seeps into and stain everything about her.

Adrien still has that cloud hanging over him, but it’s not always raining anymore.

Another save point reached, and it’s nearly four. He might have gotten a pass on breakfast and lunch, but there’s no way his father will let Adrien slide on dinner. He needs to get up, get dressed, and do something with his hair. The box is just under half empty of eclairs but all the fritters are gone, so the box will go with her.

Gloves on first, and he’s then helping her into her coat. His hands linger on her shoulders. “Thanks for this,” he says. His voice is as flat as his television, but he can’t settle on an emotion.

She doesn’t seem to take it personally. “But of course, Adrikins!” Chloé turns around, his hands pulling away from her. She fastens braided loops over shiny buttons. “I’m sure I’m much easier to talk to than your little urchin friends.”

He scowls. She just can’t help herself.

“ _Chloé_ -”

“ _Because_ you don’t have to explain your life story to me. Duh, I’m a part of it. That’s all I meant,” she tells him cooly.

He doesn’t seem impressed. “I'm so sure.”

“ _But of course_ ,” she insists, finishing her last button and placing on hand on her waist and gesturing with the other. “How many of your urch - friends,” she corrects herself when he draws in a breath, “do you talk to about this?”

She’s got him there. A few people know his mom isn’t in the picture, yet the circumstances are something he keeps a tight lid on.

“ _C’est magnifique_ ,” Chloé chirps when he says nothing. “So, kisses on the cheek, and I’ll be on my way.”

Chloe might not be the brightest star in the sky, but she is cunning. However infuriating that might be, Adrien will give her that.

A gloved finger taps the side of her tilted face, and he knows it’s easier to relent. And, if he’s being honest with himself as he leans in, this has been the first frank talk he’s had with anyone about his mother since she left. In gratitude, maybe Adrien lets his lips linger against her skin a fraction longer than is polite. Chloé accepts all praise, and doesn’t pull away until he does. Likewise, he says nothing when her brief kiss goodbye is closer to his mouth than he would usually allow, and lasts longer, too.

Chloé knows his boundaries and limits and how far she can push them, and hops down from her tipped-toes before she presses either. Why can’t she be like this around others, he wonders for the upteenth time. Respectfully flirtatious, instead of territorial and clingy. Not that it would shift his feelings for her (of course not! His heart beats for his Lady and none other!), but it certainly would help him breathe easier.

A bid _adieu_ , and she is gone in a flurry of gold and fur. And while (after dressing himself, and running a comb through his hair, and looking human for the first time that day) Adrien eats his dinner alone at the table, he does not feel lonely.

Plagg, interestingly enough, only mildly complains about having his day snooze disturbed by the Snobby Girl, and asks nothing more about the topic. Adrien can’t decide if he’s being respectful or enjoying the extra slabs of cheese he brought him.

#

The first day back from holiday break, Marinette nearly literally runs into him on the stairs. She turns about as red as Ladybug, stuttering about his scarf. She thinks it’s nice, maybe; it’s hard to tell amongst the fumbled words. It must really compliment his undersea zipup, he figures.

Chloé outright says so, loudly, when she links her arm with his, and escorts him to class.


	2. deuxième mouvement

**Maman au Concerto**  
_deuxième mouvement  
_ disappointment 

 

Being the spouse of a successful person is a full-time job.

Adrien’s mother had hurled herself into the position after he was born. No longer satisfied to be Gabriel’s muse, she grew more and more resentful of filling a role instead of being a person in her husband’s magnified eyes.

Or, that’s what Adrien guesses, anyway.

“If it’s anything like a politician’s wife,” Chloé says, swirling around a lavender stirring stick in her macchiato, “it’s basically a career.”

They’re camped out at the cafe just outside the campus. Out of nowhere, Ms Mendeleiev hit the class with a wild duos assignment. Maybe it would have made sense in one of her science courses, but she instead cursed the _math_ class with the awkward set up. As luck would literally have it, the names were chosen at random, and he wound up partnered with a very satisfied looking Chloé.

Of course, as with any match up with Chloé goes, she’ll be the last person doing the heavy lifting. Still, she’s not totally goofing off, and is at least providing some kind of entertainment while he gets writer’s cramp.

She’s paying for coffee, too, so that’s nice.

Maybe the assignment is harder than he realizes; every time he glances arounds, he finds Marinette gnawing on her eraser while looking over. Maybe if they get done early, he’ll see if her and Myléne need some help. For now, he reminds himself it doesn’t matter which side _x_ winds up on, and drags his eraser across his scratch paper.

“That Woman had this _huge_ planner,” Chloé goes on, biting down on her stir stick. Be it gum or some boy’s heart, she’s always kept something between her teeth. “It might as well have been a scrapbook. Rainbows of Post-It notes, circles in highlighter, shiny stickers. Meetings, charity events, fundraisers; if Daddy could look good - or make someone else look bad -” Adrien gives a disapproving look. “- he was there.”

Obviously the motivations were different, but Adrien remembers something similar with his parents. Every fashion week around the globe, every collection debut, galas, honor dinners - the whole nine yards, there was Gabriel Agreste and his stunning wife.

Always dripping in his father’s most original work, his mother never wore the same thing twice to any event. Every piece was donned once by her (and only her) before being sealed away in storage. That specialized and private collection sits undisturbed, like much of the Agreste Manse. Another piece of his mother his father has had entombed.

Adrien likes modeling, and he takes incredible pride in the fact that his esteemed and serious father trusts him with similar one-of-a-kind pieces. Surely, at least in the beginning, his mother liked it, too.

“That Woman felt like a billboard.” Adrien looks up at that. Chloé is the picture of boredom, head lolled to the side as she stares at passing traffic. “Banners and buttons; even after Daddy won, we still had to show our support.”

The word _mannequin_ immediately comes to mind. “Advertisements?” he adds.

Her ponytail bobs with her head. “Well, she couldn’t just be _anyone_ ’s wife, you know? Like, how I’m not just _anyone’s_ daughter.”

At that, he gives her a look. “Who would you let forget, Chloé?”

“ _Nobody_ ,” is her immediate response. She slides those blue shadowed eyes back to him. “That’s the whole point, Adrikins. _Everyone_ is going to know who my father is. Because _I_ am going to tell them. I don’t mind being a part of Daddy’s legacy.”

Not to say she won’t have her own, mind you. Honestly, Chloé is far from bad looking. If she just learned to keep her mouth shut, she might actually keep a gig if Adrien got her one. He won’t stick his neck out like that unless he’s absolutely certain whomever he suggests will be on golden tier behavior. He doesn’t want to hurt his own reputation.

He _likes_ that he has one. Sure, modeling is something he shared with his mother, and something that makes his father happy, but it makes Adrien happy, too. Seeing his face everywhere can get embarrassing, but the kinds of causes he can influence and what he can do for his friends makes it all worth it.

“I guess,” he concedes. Adrien’s mechanical pencil _click click clicks_. “Models can, and do, exist independently of designers, though.”

She mms. “Wouldn’t it like, depend?”

“My mother had a career before my father,” he insists, somewhat defensive. Still, he admits, “She became his prima model, though.”

Chloé points her stir stick at him. “See, see? Being glamorous is hard work.”

Isn’t it just. Adrien recalls his mother’s updos reaching for the heavens; the wide trains of her dresses twisting around her as she spun to greet anyone who called out to her. Her wrists, fingers and neck adorned with glittering jewels.

She was a goddess.

“She felt like a prisoner.”  A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I remember That Woman shrieking that her sashes felt like chains. I wear mine like a flag. Some people.”

Adrien shrugs. Were her designer scarves more like nooses around her neck? It’s hard for him to see it that way. The fact that his father found the time to make him a _hand knitted scarf_ for his birthday is too precious for words. Maybe it’s because he grew up in it, but Adrien appreciates that kind of attention.

Gabriel comes across as this emotionless statue, but Adrien knows still waters run deep. His father isn’t a textbook example, but Adrien very much believes him to be a tortured artist. That’s not to say it isn’t exhausting, though.

Not that he ever heard his mother say anything about it, but Adrien knows, “It’s hard worrying about not embarrassing him.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks a bit loudly. She arches both her eyebrows. Maybe that was a bit rude, but who could blame him? “You do whatever you want all the time, Chloé.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she agrees icily. “Because That Woman didn’t.” He waits for an explanation. Chloé checks her nails. “She always complained about being suffocated, alway worrying about anything she said. Like, I get it, but what does she expect? No one’s perfect, but you have to give the illusion of it.”

Adrien can’t say he’s ever expected something so observant to come out of his friend’s mouth.

“Daddy hates that she felt that way. I remember his big shoulders all slumped when she yelled at him.” Not so much as Adrien, but as Chat Noir, he’s seen the big mammoth of a mayor fret and worry about his city, about his daughter. It’s hard to picture it worse behind closed doors. “He never, ever, _ever_ wanted me feeling that way. So whatever’s on my mind, I’ve always been encouraged to share it. Whether I whisper or yell.”

“If you have the _option_ ,” Adrien chides. “Why do you yell?”

“Because I _want to_ , Adrikins. That’s the point.”

As shrill as she can get, Chloé is far from trite. She’s been known to stretch and even twist the truth to get her way. However, she has always been true to _herself_.

She’s not always as pretty on the inside as she is on the outside.

“Tact is just another form of lying.”

“Which we both know you’re not against.”

“Touché.”

Good grief. The candidness she shows him is as flattering as it is infuriating.

He gives her a waning glare over his white chocolate mocha.

Brows high and lids lowered, she holds his stare from behind her caramel macchiato.

Adrien gives first, setting his cup down. Chloé may play dirty from time to time, but she’s _always_ playing to win.

“Runs in the family,” she says. “Any and all advantage. Neither of our father’s achieved fame through pleasantries, Adrikins, _come on_.”

True enough. Now Nathalie does the verbal tearing to shreds, though Gabriel is still certainly capable of it.

Even  so, back when his father ran his enterprise directly, where nothing happened without passing by his desk first, he was a pit bull. Adrien can’t recall any specifics, but he remembers his father taking harsh phone calls at the dinner table.

Adrien remembers his mother telling Gabriel to leave his work at work. His studio had been in-home since before Adrien was born, so he didn’t understand at the time. It takes less than thread spools and swatches of fabric being strewn around for his mother to find his father’s work around the house.

Funny; for such a meticulous and neat man, his personal affairs can be rather messy.

“He _never_ treated Mother like some object, though,” he says after thanking their server for their second order.

Chloé waves around her dainty fork. “Not some _ordinary_ object, maybe. That Woman was Daddy’s crown jewel. His most treasured treasure. Treasure is still stuff, though.”

Adrien’s father has called him ‘too precious,’ his ‘golden boy.’ Precious gold is still stuff, like she said. His mother… His father called his mother ‘the most important.’

Most important what?

Person?

 _Thing_?

“You know how it’s lonely at the top?” she asks, crumbs from the heated brownie clinging to her lip gloss. “Must get extra lonely when the pedestal you’re on is so far off the ground you can’t climb down, and all you can do is jump.”

The bite Adrien is about take from their shared brownie hangs in the air, along with his jaw, at such a profound statement.

“That’s why I practice vertical poses; I won’t need the legroom.”

Aaand it’s gone. He stuffs the chocolate in his mouth almost angrily, embarrassed, as if he’d been tricked.

“So, what?” Adrien asks, frustration in his voice. “They kept our mothers on pedestals, and now that they’ve figured out how to get down, they’re sticking us on there instead?”

“ _But of course_!” He scoffs, and she reaches over to pat his hand. “It’s all about the motivation, Andrikins. Their wives were on display for everyone _else_ to see. Now they keep their kids in spotlight for _them_ to see.”

“To keep an eye on us.”

“To keep us from catching a train to Greece.”

They nibble in silence after that, the occasional sound of Chloé’s thumbnail tapping her phone screen as she scrolls along with their forks on the plate the only sounds between them.

It’s not much of a revelation. Adrien has never had any doubt that his father has turned himself to stone to keep from falling apart. That the rules and regulations and restrictions are born from fear, not cruelty. He has Adrien under so much surveillance because his mother left while no one was looking.

He’s not mad at his father.

He’s disappointed in his _mother_.

Adrien works to balance his own happiness and his father’s well being, and _it is_ _hard work_. But you know what? It’s _worth_ it. He keeps Chat Noir a secret to protect his father from villains as well as himself; he’d pry that ring from Adrien’s hand because the idea of his only child fighting crime would obviously scare decades off him.

Adrien does these things because he loves himself, but he also loves his father.

How could his mother only have enough love for herself?

“Some hearts aren’t big enough,” Chloé says, thumb sliding around her phone in one hand, stirring her third coffee with the other.  "Like, we're all working hard, here. She wasn't the only one exhausted from banquets, and traveling." Chloé lets the stick fall to the plate, and picks up her pale yellow mug. "All That Woman ever did was complain that no one appreciated how hard things were on her, without ever acknowledging how hard she made things for us.” 

There are shades of That Woman in Chloé, especially in regards to that last bit. As they both quietly drink their coffee, Adrien wonders what horrible things his mother left him.

“So. Adrikins.” Her phone goes dark with a _click_ of the lock button, and she gives him her full attention. He raises an eyebrow.

“You ever think about catching a train to Greece?”

He will honor and love his father, and be the support his mother refused to give any longer.

“Never.”

“What’s wrong with Greece?” They look up. Adrien’s eyes light up at the sight on Nino, while Chloé rolls hers. “Because the problem can’t be with trains, dude.”

“It’s a problem outside your tax bracket,” she snipes.

“ _Chloé_ ,” Adrien warns. Every time. _Every. Time_. He feels like they’re connecting and she has to go and -

Nino blinks. “No worries, my guy!” Adrien’s flare of anger must have been showing. She’s already got her phone back up, smack in front of her face. “Max and me are the only ones here that wrapped the assignment. Two brainiacs on a squad, what a waste, huh?” Adrien smiles. “Everyone’s struggling, especially Mari and Myléne. Wanna give ‘em the homie hook up and pass some answers along?”

Adrien can see Nino's trying to give him out, attempting to rescue him from Chloé. Not that he needed it before, but now he wants some distance.

Are these their mothers’ legacies? Her attitude, and his inability to deal with one?

“Run along, Adrien,” she says in a sing-song voice. He has to lean over to see her face behind her wide smartphone. Her eyes aren’t moving; she’s not reading anything.

He almost declines then, a serious spike of guilt hitting at the idea of walking away from someone who frustrates him. Even if she’s being rude or mean, or whatever.

She slides her eyes over to his. “I said shoo.” It’s the same tone and delivery as when she dismissed Nino moments ago. Chloé reaches out for the work sheets, saying, “I have to sign my name on all these, anyway.”

“Brutal,” Nino breathes as they walk to where Ayla and Ivan are comforting a fretting Marinette and Myléne, respectively.

“Everything’s relative,” is all Adrien can think to say.

He doesn’t get to do more than greet the table and ask where they’re stuck before his bodyguard ducks through the door. Piano already? Geez.

There’s a chorus of goodbyes and a stone of disappointment in his stomach when Chloé’s voice doesn’t ring out before the door chimes closed behind him.

**#**

To Ms Mendeleiev and Adrien’s surprise, more than half the class aces the assignment.

He’s even more surprised to find out everyone (besides Max and Nino, who did the assignment on their own) at that cafe got the same score as him. _Someone_ shared his answers.

As the bell rings for lunch, Adrien means to ask her about it. Before he can, however, she slings her purse over her shoulder dramatically, looking at him as she passes his desk.

“I’m not for Greece, either,” is all Chloé says, before turning her nose up and dragging Sabrina out the door.

“ _Man_!” Nino sighs in bewilderment. “Did you guys have the worst gyro _ever_ , or what’s up?”

Adrien is too busy hiding his stupid smile to notice Marinette’s fretting look between him and where Chloé had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A modern day 'concerto' is a music piece in three parts.


	3. troisième mouvement

**Maman au Concerto _  
_** _troisième mouvement  
_ melioration

It seems all his mother left Adrien is what he finds in the mirror, and what remains of his father.

"He said I'm as emotional, but more understanding than she was," he tells Chloé backstage. The fashion show isn't until tomorrow, but the mock run and practical shoots are today. Chloé sits on the corner of his assigned vanity, legs crossed, absently filing her nails while she looks around.

He couldn't get her good seats for the show proper (more like he didn't ask, whoops), but he got permission to bring her along today. He warned her repeatedly to behave or this will be the first and final time he invites her to something like this.

So far, so good, though. She seems more interested in the pageantry and glam, and sizing up the female models, but Chloé hasn't been snide within earshot of anyone, and he's thankful. At least if she gets mouthy he can blame _her_ ; when Plagg gets grumpy enough, all Adrien can do is take the L if someone hears him.

"I bet," she hums, the soft _scritch_ of her nail file resuming.

It had been bothering him since the cafe, what he has in common with his mother. Just like there's more than five senses, Adrien thinks there's more than five stages of grief. He has no idea where he's at right now, but knowing where the similarities lie have suddenly become more important.

Adrien stares at the mirror.

His mother's eyes stare back.

"But he was…" He frowns. "My father was hesitant to say it. Like it was a bad thing. How could being more understanding be a bad thing?" he asks, turning in his chair to look up at her.

"Doesn't want to speak ill of the _disappeared_ ," lowering her voice on the last word, a poor imitation of his father. He pulls a face at that, and turns towards the lighted mirror again. "Come on, Adrikins. Your dad won't say a bad thing about your mom, _en memoire_."

"She's not _dead_."

"Does your dad know that?"

He sighs. Then his make up artist arrives, and Chloé is shooed off the vanity and to the side, where Plagg is hopefully sleeping in his bag. One of the conditions for bringing a friend was that they never leave his side, besides the changing area. If Plagg pulls one of his classic food heists, it's going to be hard to track him down _and_ keep Chloé nearby.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

Or maybe he just brought the wrong person, his mind warily concedes as Chloé scowls and harumphs over her dismissal. Assuming he's allowed to do this again, next time he'll bring Marinette. He probably won't have to babysit her; she'll be so in love with the déco and designer outfits, he can likely get away with sneaking off to check on Plagg.

Truth be told, Marinette _had_ been the first person to come to mind, but Adrien got selfish. She's a sweetie pie, but Marinette is also pretty good at looking anywhere but him. His father's been busy with the orchestration of this show, and Adrien's been feeling more starved for attention than usual.

So he brought Chloé.

"Excuse you, are you _trying_ to ruin his freckles?"

Regret City.

"This boy is sunkissed, how _dare_ you hide it."

Population: him.

Thankfully, the artist is too stunned by his classmate's gall to raise the alarm, and he turns around in his chair to glare at her.

" _Zip it,_ " he warns her.

She clicks her tongue, but does as she's told.

Geez. She turns her nose up so high, it's a wonder she doesn't drown in the rainy season.

She leaves just after the make up artist so he can change behind the drawn curtain. Plagg pokes his head out.

The kwami licks crumbs from his paw. He got into the chips or crackers or cookies that had been packed just for him. "The clingy dame is clingin'," he grumps. He dips back into the bag and quickly reappears with a cracker. "I said bring the quiet broad." _crunch_ . "But you said _no_."

"Whatever." Adrien pulls his shirt over his head.

_crunch._

"Next time listen to the cat. I know where it's at, huh?"

"Where you're at," Adrian snaps, wadding up his shirt, "should be inside my bag!" and throws it.

Plagg is obviously faster, and is hidden from sight before the shirt hits the leather with an inaudible sound. A fraction of a moment later, the dressing assistant announces himself.

When Chloé's allowed back in, it's when the hair stylist arrives. A wave of pride rolls through him at her little appreciative gasped squeal when she sees him.

 _Parisian Outré_ is Gabriel Agreste's summer collection. Honestly, it's not his father's best work, but it wasn't anything he wanted to design for to begin with. The board members of his line were leaning on his father to produce something for the more casual fashion fan, something for high end department stores, maybe, instead of exclusive mono-run boutiques.

Gabriel was against it, but it's an easily resolved issue: watch the colour trend and ask his son what he and his friends where. Boom, sketches for a whole line done over a weekend.

As per usual, Adrien will headline, and he's got to admit, he might actually choose to wear the ensemble he's opening with.

Black matte boots with the laces wrapped around instead of up; black skinny jeans, stressed but not torn; a watermelon t-shirt with a black splatter cutting across the bottom; a sage denim jacket cut to his hip; and a wide knitted salmon coloured hat.

It's full-bodied, stylish, breathable in the wet French heat, and simple enough to speak to the grunge fashion crowd, while dangling the price tag of an Agreste piece.

His father prefers to design towards women's clothing, or men's suits, but he certainly isn't limited to them.

Adrien knows this was _made_ for him. It plays to all his strengths: his eyes, his skin tone, it doesn't wash out his hair.

How could his mother hate this display of affection?

The comb in his hair freezes, and behind him, Chloé raises her eyebrows in surprise, and Adrien realizes he thought that outloud.

"Too true," Chloé agrees, trying to save him. "All of Papa Agreste's love is on display here."

He's wearing too much foundation: his reflection isn't blushing as much as he is.

That is, thankfully, the worst thing that happens at the mock run. Though Adrien thinks the hair stylist might have tattled on him - Nathalie sends him off to 'play' with Chloé because his father is busy.

"That was so dumb," he groans, dragging his hands down his face.

"It was a good question," she counters. They're standing in line for an afternoon pastry at Marinette's place. "Like, if that's torture, go ahead and lock the door behind you, thanks."

"Modeling _is_ hard work, you know," he reminds her dryly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his light jacket. The snow has melted, and the City of Lights is quickly shaking the chill off. Chloé's resting her hand on the strap of her purse, her eyes glued to her phone.

She snaps her gum. "Your mom wasn't even modeling when she left. For like, years."

"Maybe she wanted to be," he wonders, letting his head tip back while she keeps hers down. Despite the rainy season only being a few weeks out, the sky is blue and empty. Maybe like his mother. Maybe like his father. Maybe both.

He shakes his head at that, facing forward again. He's getting too far up in his head, too flowery. Everyone's a poet to some extent. This is Paris, after all. It's just better not to admit it.

The line shuffles forward.

"Ugh," Chloe lowers her sunglasses down her nose to watch the line barely move. "Can't we go somewhere else?"

" _No_ ," he says immediately. "This is the best place around, and you know it's worth the wait."

" _Fine_ ," she chuffs, pushing her designer shades back up. "I better not get a burn out here."

"It's February."

"There is sunshine on my nose, Adrikins."

"You are the tannest person I know."

"Ch'yeah - by appointment."

He chuckles. Now there's something he _didn't_ get from his mother, his skin. His father is pale because he's never outside, but the man can tan in the time it takes to walk to his car. Gabriel likes the freckles on his son, but prefers himself spotless.

"Did your mom get tans?" he asks suddenly, and immediately regrets it. She looks at him with a cocked eyebrow and an amused smirk, and he doesn't know why he blurted that out.

"No," and she snaps her gum again. "That Woman thought she looked best white as snow. Her and her like, derby hats, parasols and shawls. She never cared for clothing that covered her up, but she el-oh-vee-ee'd those accessories."

He nods to that. His memories of Mrs Bourgeois are vague and from across a room, but Adrien thinks he recalls shoulderless gowns and plunging necklines.

Chloé didn't ask, but, "In her private life, my mom was kind of conservative. Long sleeved cardigans, sweater dresses," leggings, flats, baby doll blouses, etc. "Her hair was long for events, but I don't know if she really liked it like that. It was always in a ponytail."

"Some of us _like_ ponytails," she teases.

"Yeah, but yours is nice."

"Oo! Thank you!"

"Hers were just… back. Not like a mess or anything," he adds quickly as Chloé removes her sunglasses. "Just not fancy."

She places her sunglasses atop her head. "My mom couldn't stand long hair. She rarely let it past the middle of her neck, and _never_ to her shoulders."

The line pushes forward enough so they're in the shade of the building. Adrien does a quick Plagg check before asking, "Is that why you keep your hair long?"

Her eyes look up above her phone for a moment, and he can tell she's deciding if she wants to lie. Instead, she admits, "Yeah," before returning to scrolling through whatever apparel app she has open. "To be honest, I look better with short hair. I keep my bangs this long to kind of like, create the illusion? But it's never gonna actually _be_ short. Not for no reason, anyway."

Adrien doesn't know what to say to that. A small, "oh" is his only response. Chloe's not known for admitting any kind of shortcomings. Despite the frank and sometimes uncomfortable conversations they have had over the last two months, that's easily the most unfiltered thing she's said.

He wonders if he'll ever be so resentful, that he'll deny a similarity at his own expense. There's a terrible part of him that's a little impressed Chloé would do that to herself.

She does play to win, after all.

The moments pass by. She occasionally holds her phone up, asking if he thinks something is cute. Then, when they're nearly to the door, she asks, "You know what's messed up?"

"You want the short list or the long?"

She ignores that. "Paris is all over the news because of Ladybug and Chat Noir, right?" Uh oh. He nods warily. "And they're only here because we're getting mobbed by emotional basketcases, right?"

 _You were Akumatized, too_ , he wants to remind her, but she's talking to Adrien, not Chat Noir. Instead, he nods again.

"Like, Daddy's been attacked on live tv, and pleaded for me to be saved on megaphone. You know that got recorded."

He already doesn't like this. "Yeah…?"

"If my mom ever called to check on us, _I_ never heard about it."

The door opens for them, the warm scents of the bakery rolling over them both. Brown sugar, cinnamon, honey and caramel. It's always the best shock to his senses, coming into this place from the cold. It's probably been his favourite discovery all winter.

Marinette's mother hurries behind the display case, while her father fills up the entry to the kitchen no matter which side of the room he's on. Their classmate herself is at the counter, taking payments and wishing patrons a good day.

Maybe he's just been around his father for too long, but he always thought of a career in fashion as a solitary life style. Marinette is obviously a people person, he wonders how well she'll actually do in the field. He also wonders why she can't be this boisterous at school.

It's hard not to be jovial here, he guesses, though his comrade looks like she's winding up to make an effort for it.

They picked a bad topic before coming in here.

"Which is funny to me," although she isn't laughing. "Because I can just hear her asking, _is_ my _daughter alright?_ My _ex-husband, the mayor, yes, is he alright?_ Not asking about Chloé or André - just about _Audrey's_ daughter, _Audrey's_ ex."

He'll just stick to Mrs Bourgeois.

"Because if she wasn't attached to it, it like, didn't exist."

Marinette will see them soon, and he doesn't want either spoiling for a fight. He lightly touches her arm. "Safe bet mine didn't either."

Which is a weird… relief. Not that she didn't call per se, but that she would _have_ to call to find out. If his mother were still anywhere _near_ Paris, she'd easily have been Akumatized by now, right? It'll be a year of his Lady and himself come August, and a year of a disappeared mom in three months.

If someone were so miserable and fed up with every aspect of their life, that would be primo honey to Hawkmouth. Either she turned her frown upside down the second she walked away, or she's nowhere near this villainous hot zone.

Adrien isn't sure which he'd rather root for: that she's that much happier without him, or she's just as miserable somewhere else.

Speaking of Akuma, February's been pretty quiet so far. Though he agrees with his Lady, that patrols are going to have to step up around Valentine's Day. The flavours of heartbreak are limitless.

"Right?" she agrees with a huff. She angrily shoves her phone back in her purse. "So messed up."

Somehow, Marinette spots Chloé first and her eyes narrow. Adrien will never understand it, how Chloé can bring out the worst in even someone as sweet as Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Her thin glare pops wide open when she realizes Adrien is there as well, and her jaw drops when her stare falls to the hand he has on Chloé.

He lifts said hand in a greeting gesture with a small smile, but Marinette suddenly shrinks down behind the counter, leaving a customer with their arm held out for their change.

Must be a little embarrassed she got caught giving a classmate the stink eye.

" _Marinette_ ," her mother scolds, and both he and Chloé stop stewing long enough to watch. Sabine, isn't it? Marinette holds up a hand with the change and Sabine takes it, apologizing to the customer and handing him the bills. No one seems offended, and the line moves along.

Sabine forcefully stands her daughter back up, gives her an affectionate but reprimanding _pat pat_ on her cheek, and goes back to collecting customer orders. Marinette's smile is plastic and strained as she scribbles down receipts and punches buttons on the register. Her eyes constantly flick between Adrien and Chloé and whomever she's helping.

He wonders if it's awkward to be seen working. Adrien wouldn't know, the modeling industry isn't exactly a social event despite all the networking that happens. Although, any time he sees a classmate with a new poster of his or something, he flushes. Chloé's never had a job a day in her life, and likely won't if she marries the way her father wants…

Huh. She whines about wanting fame, but it's always a successful career she wants, not just a loaded spouse. She's pretty tenacious, if she had any talent to build off, maybe she could do it.

She's watching Sabine still. "She'd just ask me what I thought I was doing," Chloé says, arms crossed tightly. She's frowning, but it's obviously not _Marinette's_ mother she's talking about it. "Or like, ask why I was upset. But, you know, rhetorically."

"I never had that problem," Adrien says honestly. His mother could be dramatic and emotional, but she was _never_ cold towards him. She was pretty distant in the days leading up to her leaving, but she tended to take Adrien's side on everything. "Truth: she was pretty over-protective. Not as bad as my father, obviously."

"Obviously."

"But she was always wanting to rally to my defense. Maybe I can't remember it right because I was just a kid, but she used to hold my hand _all the time_. Or keep her hand on my shoulder to keep me from going anywhere."

She tucks some errand bangs behind her ear. "Guess the world stopped being scary."

Adrien shrugs. "Who knows."

There's only two people ahead of them now.

"Do you believe in revenge, Adrikins?"

Boy, Marinette sure has her head at an odd angle. If he didn't know better, he'd thought she was trying to listen in. Before he can reply though, Chloé continues. "Probably not," she sighs dramatically. "A gentle soul like you can't appreciate the art of it."

Maybe he could, as a crime fighting vigilante. But he keeps that to himself.

"Maybe not," he faux concedes. "But it's not like I have to try very hard to get it."

She tips her head back. "How do you mean?"

"My face is all over the place," he says. "Everyone's in my father's clothing. Unless she moved to the middle of Africa, there's no getting away from us."

Chloé smirks. " _Adrikins_ ," she purrs. "How _vindictive_ of you."

"I was a model before she left," he admonishes gently. "It's not like I took it up out of spite."

"But, do you like, _keep_ it up out of spite?"

Adrien side-eyes her. Her smirk is pretty and pink, the blue of her eyeshadow lighter for the winter months. There is nothing about her that isn't calculated. Chloé is playing a strange game of chess with life, always trying to be steps ahead of whatever's happening.

It must be exhausting, feeling the need to live that way. "No," he says. "I do it because I _like_ it. If she has any thoughts about it anymore, she can send in fan mail."

Her artificially whitened smile splits wide across her face. She _loves_ that answer. "Maybe you don't get the art of revenge," and she wraps herself around his arm. "But you know living well is the best kind."

" _Welcome to Boulangerie Patisserie_."

"Hey -" though Adrien's greeting sinks fast at Marinette's twitching face. Her 'smile' looks more like gritted teeth, and her left eye is tic'ing. "Uh, Marinette?" he asks. "You okay?"

"Yeah!" she squeaks quickly through her teeth. "Why wouldn't I be? Everything is great, as usual, which is to say as always. But of course you know that!"

A beat.

"Uh, yeah." Adrien gives a shaky chuckle. "Yeah, same with us."

Chloé sniggers, "Most definitely." And then immediately, airily, "Half a dozen mini eclairs; an apple cinnamon fritter. With caramel." When she adds nothing else, Adrien nudges her with the arm she's holding. She clicks her tongue. " _Please_."

He smiles helpfully and nods at Marinette. It's pretty packed, and the line is still going behind them. She must be kind of flustered.

"Right away!" Sabine chimes in, giving her a daughter a knowing look.

"R-right away…"

It's too crowded to stay inside, so with a wave goodbye, he and Chloé step outside to eat their treats.

Before he can take a bite, though, Chloé holds up one of her tiny eclairs in a toast.

"To living well?" he asks, holding up his fritter.

"To living _better_ , Adrikins," she corrects.

Maybe it's more suited to fit Chat Noir than it is Adrien, but he can feel something Cheshire in his grin. Something she mirrors.

She gets some chocolate on his fritter, and there's caramel on her eclair.

It's better.

**#**

They drift apart after that.

Akuma season shifts into high gear, and Chat Noir spends more time in Paris than Adrien does. It can't be helped, it's thrilling work, and nothing beats spending time with his Lady, but his social life suffers.

Not his relationship with his father, though. Plagg's annoyed that Adrien's drive to protect and please his father has been reinvigorated, because it means tighter schedules and less snack breaks, but it _does_ come with more cheese in consolation. Not a total loss.

When his brain emerges from the monster hunting and modeling haze, he finds Chloé has lopped her hair to her shoulders, and swapped her cotton candy colour palette for something more neutral.

He likes it.

Adrien gets Marinette backstage for the end of spring mock run, and remembers to ask for a good set of seats for Chloé and her father. No more squinting from the back row.

Because over the last couple months, Adrien cut his scheduling too close - an Akuma chase running long every now and again - he wound up unaccounted for by Nathalie a handful of times. It was Chloé who covered for him: always said he was with her, when Nathalie started making calls to check around.

It may be lonely at the top, but there's nothing wrong with wanting to share the view.

If their mothers ever pop up again, Adrien and Chloé should send out some 'thank you' cards.

Because their losses brought them together, and they are going to be better for it.

Watch them do it.

From Greece, if you have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin! I hope anyone enjoyed this experiment in common ground between the selfless and the selfish, and how easily swapped between those mindsets are. I'm so sorry, Greece, I have nothing against you. I also hope to be back, Miraculous Fandom, if you'll have me. Have a lovely day!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Miraculous Fandom!, I'm new! Please regard me kindly. I'm only one episode into season two, and I desperately want Chloe to be redeemable so RIP continuity. The sun was out, but it's been cold today. I hope your November has been well. I hope to see you in parts two and three! Thanks for reading. Cross-posted on ff dot net


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